Two Women and Some Books
One week…
At the time it hadn’t seemed like too much to barter with the little man with the domed skull who had offered a solution to her predicament. At first he had asked for her virginity as a downpayment, but when she laughed and pointed out that it was a rose that had been plucked a good while since he had pushed out his long upper lip and made an old-maidish tisking noise. But then he had brightened. His master, he said, would be content with a week of her company in recompense for helping her out. At a time convenient to her, of course.
She had agreed hastily, frankly in so much fear of the consequences of her actions that she would have agreed to anything he suggested. Now, however, with the threat of prison no longer hanging over her head, she would have dearly loved to wriggle out of the deal, but there seemed to be no escape.
It was, therefore, with a fairly bad grace that she boarded the Eurostar for Brussels on a freezing cold Sunday afternoon in the pouring rain.
“Belgium…” she mused inwardly, “who lives in Belgium?”
That was a question that she was never to have answered. A pressed and barbered chauffeur, carrying a huge umbrella, met her on the station concourse and escorted her to a waiting limousine. He tenderly helped her into the rear of the vehicle.
“Our journey will be of about four hours duration, madam.”
She nodded as regally as she could, whilst mentally trying to pin down his middle European accent.
He got into the driver’s seat and the vehicle moved away as smoothly as if it ran on ball bearings. The sound of the doors locking was almost shockingly loud. She reminded herself that her own more modest saloon car performed precisely the same function when the speed reached ten miles per hour, but that was of very little comfort as she looked at the chauffeur’s shaven neck and the way his cap was placed precisely centrally on his almost square head. Not normally a woman noted for her imagination, she gave herself a mental shake, but couldn’t rid herself of a small worm of dread lurking deep in the pit of her stomach.
The journey seemed endless and she was only able to endure it with to
tolerable equanimity by concentrating on her own breathing and looking out of the window at the sheets of rain. As the day grew darker, the rain grew increasingly sleety and by the time they turned off the autobahn onto what was obviously a private drive it was snowing in earnest. The woman examined her own perfectly manicured fingernails and wondered just what she had allowed herself to be manoeuvred into. Pushing half a million dollars worth of assistance out of a sticky situation to the back of her mind, she allowed herself to feel misused.
The big car swished to a halt beside a set of ironwork gates. Her driver rolled down his window and said something she didn’t catch. The gates slid open and the car picked up speed again. Only now they were driving through a rocky tunnel. She shivered involuntarily. The tunnel was dark and it seemed that the headlights barely pierced the gloom.
“Almost there madam.”
That wasn’t exactly reassuring either.
Not being a fanciful woman, she wasn’t sure why her heart dropped to somewhere in the region of the needle-sharp heels of her boots when the car stopped outside the deeply carved, black walls of an ornate castle. Walls that were being rapidly decorated with white snow frosting. Somewhere in the very back of her mind she heard the words ‘Castle of Otranto’ and some long-forgotten fear grasped her by the throat. At that moment, had there been anywhere to run she would have fled. But there wasn’t. Instead she set her foot on the bottom step and mounted the worn stone steps, bending her mind to grace and suppleness grace in place of gaucherie and fear.
As she reached the huge doors one leaf was thrown open and a cadaverous figure in the dark suit of a butler stood regarding her. She was a woman well accustomed to servants, so she glided past paying him no more heed than if he had been one of the gargoyles that glowered down on her from the dark stone walls.
Inside the place a huge fire burned in the sort of grate that could have accommodated a whole tree. A servant bustled forward and took her coat. She automatically fluffed her hair and touched fingers to her perfectly painted lips before turning to face the figure that uncurled itself from a huge chair beside that crackling fire. For an instant she saw, or thought she saw, grey scaly skin, yellowish teeth, and long bright claws on strangely articulated fingers. But then the image wavered and all she could really begin to focus on was icy green eyes with vertical slotted pupils. She thought she might have been about to faint, but she was not granted even that small mercy. However, she had never lacked courage and walked to meet her fate with a straight spine and a cool smile.
One week…
One week can be a lifetime or as fleeting as a passing breath.
From that day until the end of a pampered and hugely successful life she could never decide which she experienced. All she knew for certain was that whatever happened to her in those seven days she must have pleased Him greatly to be allowed to leave on her own two feet.
To whoever is deluded enough to read this crap.
This is Jacintha Farquhar, woman of a certain age, and distaff parent of the delusional and currently incapacitated Moons. I never thought I’d feel sorry for the poor self-centred little twat. But I do. I actually hurt for him. He’s so bruised and battered that I have sent him away to lick his wounds in the fleshpots of Mykonos. I packed him off with a bag of clothes, a few smutty novels, and an introduction to a couple of gay friends who run a very popular bar there. As to what precisely happened to the sad little bugger, that’s his business. I’m not about to discuss it with a bunch of prurient wannabes. If he wants to tell you when he gets back into the saddle that’s his affair. But for now, mind your own…
If it was up to me, I’d stop this crap too. However, it means a lot to my battered son, so I have promised to keep it going until he returns from his sabbatical.
I have decided to write about life lessons, because if you lot really want to write anything decent you’ve got to live it first.
In almost every piece of adult literature you will find booze, and as a general rule boozing falls into one of half a dozen categories:
Polite drinking.
Social drinking.
Party drinking.
Getting pissed drinking.
Drowning the sorrows drinking.
Alcoholism.
So then, where are you on the scale? A sherry on the third Thursday of every month? Prosecco hangovers on Sunday mornings? A bottle of vodka in every cupboard in the house?
Whatever your own consumption, consider that as the strongest use of alcohol you should ever write about. Of course, many of you will be timid shits like my poor little bastard of a son, and will consider a glass of Fernet Branca on a sunny afternoon to be the height of decadence. But on the other side of your shiny little threepenny bit you will be wanting to write about drinking and roistering. Well. You bloody can’t….
If you want to write about a drunken orgy, bloody well find one (effing Google it) and go and get completely off your face.
In the same vein, if you really want to write about the miseries of a hangover, or the utter awfulness of drinking so much you vomit what feels like your toenails into the gutter, then at least have the frigging courage to try it out and see what it really feels like. My recipe for the first: a bottle of good red wine with your dinner, followed by at least a dozen cocktails, and four large brandies. To achieve the second, take recipe one and add a kebab and half a bottle of Bucky at the end.
When you’ve done that. And taken a week to recover. Then you can write something that will be at least recognisable as real.
Now piss off and get on with it, because, to be brutally honest, you lot are getting on my tits right now and I’ve a hot date with a half-bottle of calvados.
Next week: Hair pulling and brawls.
Jacintha Farquar, unfortunate mother of Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV
Adoring Fans can join his Facebook Group but I wouldn’t bloody bother as he never does anything with it.
The most photographed woman of her generation looked at him politely, and offered a practised smile. It was frustrating, but he chose not to show that, instead he searched for another way to to shake her out of her self-possession.
“Does it not worry you?” he asked in his deep, hypnotic voice. “Are you never a little afraid?”
“Afraid of what?”
“That the old superstition is true, and every time you are photographed you lose a little of your soul.”
She regarded him limpidly.
“Perhaps. Perhaps I have been photographed so often that I am just a graceful shell.”
He looked into the serene depths of her remarkable amber eyes and allowed his frustration to boil over.
“Well maybe I should photograph you like that,” he snapped with sudden viciousness. “As an empty vessel remarkable only for the elegance of its window dressing.”
She made no reply, so he stared again into the depths of his imaging device – looking for something to distinguish his pictures from the thousands of others that flooded the Internet and colonised every glossy magazine on the planet. As he concentrated it seemed to him that those famous eyes grew even wider, and clearer, and that they slowly filled the viewfinder as bit by bit they dragged his soul into the abyss that lurked in their depths.
He screamed just once, and the woman smiled the secret smile he had been looking for…
We at the Working Title Blog like to help out when we can, so today we offer you some suggestions for books you might not have come across that you should consider sticking on your Kindle before you leave home on vacation this year. We have tried to cover a range of genres so there should be something for everyone to give a try. Needless to say, all come with a Highly Recommended sticker!
Hunting Darkness by Ian Bristow
Urban Fantasy.
DI Davis is beginning to come to terms with the fact his sergeant has been murdered, when the investigation leads him to encounter a dark druidic mystery.
Rafferty Lincoln Loves… by Emily Williams
Contemporary YA.
An intense, witty and powerful coming of age story with startling consequences. No adult can read this and not be taken back to their days at school and any teen reading it is going to recognise themselves in this story.
Tales of a Nuisance Man by James Maxstadt.
Humorous Fantasy.
Duke Grandfather has a very unfortunate name as he is neither a Duke nor a Grandfather – he is a Nuisance Man. Hunting down ‘nuisances’ in Capital City for bounty.
The Blue Serpent by Claire Buss
Mixed Genre
A selection of short and snappy tales from sci-fi to contemporary settings. Hugely recommended.
The Vexation of Vampires by Chrys Cymri
Portal Fantasy
Penny White Five. If you’ve missed the first four do snag those first. Penny’s life gets even more complex. You will laugh and cry.
First Steps for a Hero by Judith Rook
YA Fantasy
Young adult with a twist. A likeable young hero begins to come into his destiny. Fascinating.
Do be sure to at least 'Look Inside' these books and maybe you'll discover a new favourite!
Brenda pouted and lifted the cream cake with tongs, before dropping it into a box.
“No, I meant that one. The one beside it. The one with the bigger cherry.”
Biting back a retort, she carefully returned the original cake to the display plate and picked up the one requested. There were days she thought she’d go insane if it weren’t for VRP.
End of the working day and she walked through the rain, half her attention on trying to avoid being splashed by passing cars or treading in too many puddles, but the rest already lost in anticipation of what was to come.
An ordinary looking house in an ordinary suburban street, Brenda slid her keycard into its lock and stepped inside.
“Hey Brenda? Who you doing this evening?”
Jake was getting changed, struggling a little to get into the skin-tight VRP suit. Getting her own suit out of her locker, Brenda thought for a moment.
“Fallon Stardasher,” she said decisively.
“Oh cool, I’ll go for Cyber Cheetah then – that’ll work well.”
A few minutes later, suited up, virtual reality headsets donned, the two set out to save the world – again.
From Crooked Grow the Trees by Carmel Hanes
She heard the rhythmic pounding long before she reached the source. Panting from the exertion of running up a flight of stairs, Sophia leapt the remaining two steps and quickly opened the door with her key. Rushing into the staff observation room, she tried to catch her breath while scanning the scene through the glass.
Beyond the wall Quinn slammed a chair repeatedly against the wall. THUD…THUD… THUD echoed through the unit as the plastic chair quivered with each contact. The doorway into the unit was barricaded with a bookshelf and couch. Books and papers lay strewn across the floor between upended chairs, sogging in water from an overturned cleaning bucket. The unit’s television lay on the floor among glass shards.
Four of Quinn’s peers huddled in the corner farthest away from the staff window, their faces reflecting a mixture of excitement and trepidation as they stared at Quinn. Stripped of power, the residents were impressed when one of their own rose up to seize control. But, like a tornado a safe distance away which suddenly changes course to come your way, they knew rage’s funnel could shift without notice and touch down on whatever was near and accessible. None of them wanted to find themselves in the crosshairs of his emotional rifle, having witnessed his previous escalations with staff.
“Come on you rent-a-cops!” Quinn taunted. “Come on in. What’s stopping you?” THUD…THUD….THUD. “Bunch of sissy girls? S’matter….you afraid of a plastic chair? Who’s big and tough now? Hiding behind that glass…you ain’t NOTHIN’!”
The yellow blur of plastic chair smashed against the window, making Sophia jump. Quinn’s hand followed the chair and slammed against the glass as he glared through to those inside. Spotting Sophia, he stopped abruptly as they stared at each other for a frozen moment; Sophia, hoping her presence might make some difference for him, and Quinn, startled enough by the unexpected that his fight momentarily froze. His face contorted as a tug-of-war ensued between years of pent-up rage and hatred, and his desire to earn his freedom from places like this, people like these. An avalanche of thoughts tumbled…images, feelings, experiences… screaming voices; the smell of burnt flesh, feces and stale beer; the welting pain of belts on his body; unable to move, or to breath; and fear, overwhelming, paralyzing fear. Quinn’s entire body trembled as he covered his face with his hands and turned from the window. An anguished roar erupted as he paced through the unit, head down. Passing items in disarray on the floor, he kicked them aside, but did not pick any up to throw. As he paced he gave a wide berth to the four continuing to watch warily from the corner.
“I want to go in and talk to him,” Sophia asserted quietly to Eliza, the unit manager.
“Are you NUTS?” Eliza’s reply was immediate. “Absolutely NOT! I’m responsible for safety here, and no one is safe going in there to talk to that lunatic. I’ve already called for backup from MSU. He’s going into lockdown!” Eliza crossed bulky arms over her chest with an expression that dared disagreement.
“I don’t think he will hurt me, and I’m not afraid of him,” Sophia countered. “I can already see he’s coming down, and I think I can help him continue to do that. If you bring in staff from MSU he’s likely to escalate again.”
“Well, if he does, it just proves what I’ve been trying to tell everyone; he’s dangerous and he doesn’t belong here. Maybe now someone will listen, before someone else gets hurt! I’m not going to try to open that door without backup!” Eliza replied stubbornly.
“Can I try to talk to him through the med slot?” Sophia knew when she was in a standoff. Although not ideal, talking to Quinn through a small opening was preferable to not being able to talk to him at all, and this was a critical moment for him.
Eliza raised an eyebrow at Sophia and made a small derisive noise, but simultaneously nodded in consent. “If he throws something at you through there, just remember that I warned you.”
Carmel Hanes worked as a school psychologist for over thirty years in public school and detention centers with students identified as being the most challenging for classrooms. She provided evaluations for special education, consultation and training for teachers and parents, and counseling with students. Upon retirement, she wrote the novel, Crooked Grow the Trees, based on her years of experience and observations of the challenges faced by many of us, young and old
Q1. Sweet or savoury? When you are heading for that midnight snack are you looking for cake or cheese? Tell us your secret craving
While I usually try to eat healthy, my culinary nemesis is potato chips with cottage cheese, an old family favorite, and no meal is complete without a bite of chocolate at the end.
Q2. If you had to choose the three people whose influence on your life and writing was greatest, who would they be? One author. One inspirational person. One person who just loves the heck out of you.
My husband of 38 years gets first mention, for his steadfast support, encouragement and understanding. He is the calm that keeps me from running aground in a turbulent world. Although fictional, Atticus Finch gets next mention, as he was my role model as a father and a fine human being, modeling values I continue to hold to this day. It’s impossible to choose one author who influenced me, so it’s a three-way tie between Harper Lee, Barbara Kingsolver, and Sue Monk Kidd; each offering something that stuck with me over the years.
Q3. What achievement are you most proud of? And what makes you cringe just thinking about it?
The thing I most appreciate is being told by a student that our contacts were helpful, and to see a person being more functional and feeling more happy. I cringe thinking about all the things I might have done differently if I knew then what I know now….about life in general, but especially in my work with kids.
You can follow Carmel Hanes on Twitter, Facebook and Goodreads.
They rolled up to the gates of the Old Rectory and Sam made to get out.
“I’ll get the gate,” Anna said, but Paul beat her to it. He threw open the gate and bowed them inside.
“Nice pad,” he said cheekily. “More importantly, is there cake?”
Anna laughed. “Of course there is cake. And Sam will make cappuccino. It’s his one area of culinary excellence.”
After excellent cake and large cups of cappuccino, Anna showed Danny and Paul to their room.
“Oh. This is nice. Bathroom?”
Anna opened the door to a palatial en suite. Paul applauded.
“Whoever did the house up made a grand job of it.”
“Mostly Sam with his own fair hands. I asked him about that, being a surgeon and all, and he confessed to using barrier cream and wearing cotton gloves under his work gloves. Whatever. He isn’t afraid of hard work.”
Danny smiled at his sister.
“No. And he would appear to love you immoderately. When you getting married then?”
“Dunno. We only just got engaged.”
“Don’t wait too long,” Paul counselled. “We want to be at the wedding and we may only have a couple months before we get a new posting. By the way. What sign is Sam?”
“I dunno. I don’t even know when his birthday is.”
“Anna Marshall. You have no romance in your soul!”
Anna flipped him the finger and left the room. But she stuck her head back around the door.
“Supper will be ready at seven. But come down for a drink any time.”
Then she really was gone.
She ran Sam to earth in the garden, where he was engaged in a game of football with Bonnie.
Anna rested her head against his chest.
“Sam, what’s your star sign?”
He looked a bit puzzled then said.
“Scorpio. I think. Why?”
“Paul.”
“Oh. Okay. I think. But isn’t astrology rubbish?”
“It is. And Paul only pretends to believe in it. Just because he’s gay and pretty, he thinks it behoves him to be fey. But we need to be sure we tell him the right sign or he’ll never let us forget it. So. When is your birthday?”
“October twenty-nine.”
“Yeah that’s Scorpio. Hey. It’s only about a month away. On a Friday.”
“Yeah. I’m going to be forty.”
“You’ll catch me up for a couple months. I’m a February baby… So. What do you want for your birthday? Apart from lots of hot sex…”
He grinned and grabbed her.
“I tell you what I’d really like. I’d like you to marry me.”
‘What. On your birthday?”
“Yeah. If it’s possible. And if you don’t want a big, fancy wedding that takes months and months to organise.”
“No. I’d hate that. Ideally just you and me and a couple witnesses. And Bonnie if they will let her in.”
“Sounds brilliant. Can we do that?”
“There’s only one way to find out. I’m off to phone the register office. Surely there will be someone there at four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon.”
She strode off purposefully, leaving Sam to grin at Bonnie and continue their game. They had both given up playing and were sitting at the kitchen table before Anna came back. She wore a huge grin.
“All fixed. But I had to talk fast. They’ve even agreed to stretch a point for Bon Bon as she is a PAT dog. Eleven o’clock on the morning of October twenty-nine. We have to go into the office sometime on Monday to fill in the paperwork and pay them a hundred quid for the licence and stuff.” She stopped talking suddenly and looked at Sam a bit shyly. “That is OK, isn’t it? It is what you wanted?”
He stood up from the table and wrapped her in a massive bear hug.
“Of course it’s what I wanted. My idea wasn’t it? I guess you will want Danny as your witness.”
“Yeah. And yours?”
“Ben. Paul and Colin can be bridesmaids. And Bonnie. Who will be the prettiest.” Then he picked Anna up and swung her around in the air. “I feel stupid with happiness,” he said. Then: “Why don’t we have a party to celebrate on the day after the wedding. We can pretend it’s just a birthday party for me. I’m sure we could get a room in a pub somewhere and get them to put on a bit of grub.”
Anna grinned down into his face.
“What a fine idea. Except that we’ll have a party here. The back room of a pub? I think not.”
“But Anna. Think of the work…”
“It’ll be fun.”
“You are deeply deranged, but if you would really like to organise a party here I’d love it.”
“Course I’d like. Organising and cooking. My two best things.”
“After sex, of course.”
“That goes without saying,” she giggled. “Who do you want to invite?”
“Apart from Ben and Colin? Rod Cracksman. My cousin Martha, who breeds horses in Ireland. Esmond and Sandra and Esmond’s mother. Carrie and Oscar. Mrs Jackson, who used to live next door. Christa Jenkins, my solicitor who just about saved my life when Christina was trying to skin me. And, I suppose, a few of the neighbours. The nice ones. You?”
“Apart from Danny and Paul? Sufiq and Anjali Patel, the friends who are renting my house. Ted. Jim and Patsy Cracksman and their tribe. Denzel Myers.”
“So you’ve decided to tell Patsy about us at last. I’m glad.”
She grinned and held up a finger.
“I’ve been keeping Patsy out of the loop for very good reasons. You know that she bullies me – for my own good – and I didn’t want her pushing. I wanted to make up my own mind.”
Then she giggled.
“I dunno what your mates will make of Pats. You’ve never seen her dressed to kill. She was a bit subdued when you were at Cracksman Towers. But when she’s on form, she’s something to behold. You ever watch Dog the Bounty Hunter?”
“Course I do. You can’t be an aficionado of guilty pleasure telly without watching Dog. But what’s that got to do with anything?”
“Patsy dressed to kill. Think Beth, only dialled up a couple notches.”
“She should liven the thing up a bit then!”
“She’ll do that. And she might not be everyone’s cup of tea. But she has had my back for a lot of years.”
“I know she has. And I know she cares about you. She only bullies you because you let her. Are you brave enough to show her that you’re all grown up at last?”
“Now I have you, I reckon I am.”
“Good girl. Now I’d better go phone Ben and Colin. Get them onside. We’ve got a wedding to plan you know.”
He kissed her on the end of her nose and ambled off.
Fret not for that we cannot change
For those who will not hear
In life we may not rearrange
That which is darkly clear
Fret not for that which cannot move
For folk who listen never
For all we might wish to improve
We really aren’t that clever
Hold not the pain of others dear
Or offer your hand to be bitten
In the end it’s perfectly clear
That by their own selves they are smitten
Take a look, at a book
Sneak between the pages
Take it to a shady nook
And fly away for ages
Every chapter has its savour
Every word and letter
Every page has its own flavour
What in life is better?
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